The Pearl (The Godwicks #3) - Tiffany Reisz Page 0,34
between her breasts. He couldn’t stop staring at her. The dream of them endlessly fucking came back to him in a rush that left his heart racing. If she’d let him, he’d have her on her desk right that second.
“Nice desk,” he said, trying to focus on anything but sex.
“Your great-grandfather’s,” she said. “When he died, the hotel seized his belongings since he owed The Pearl so much money. Unfortunately he didn’t leave the keys to the desk. You don’t have his old keys, do you? I’ve been trying to get into the bottom drawer for years.”
He heard her toeing the drawer with the tip of her shoe.
“I’ll ask Dad, but I don’t think so,” he said.
Zoot stuck her head in the door. “Going now unless you need anything more?” She pointed a thumb at Arthur. “Want me to show this one out?”
“No, thank you,” Regan said breezily.
“You sure?”
“Very sure.”
“You sure you’re sure?”
“Zoot. Goodnight.”
“Night, Boss.” In an exaggerated posh accent, she added to Arthur, “And prithee goodnight, my lord and liege.”
“Ta,” Arthur said. When he heard the penthouse door close, he turned back to Regan. “I don’t think she likes me very much.”
“What was your first clue?” Regan said, flipping through some files.
“Any particular reason why or just general animosity toward men and/or the nobility?”
“It’s your average everyday case of jealousy,” Regan replied. “She likes me. She thinks I like you more.”
“You treat me like a whore,” he said.
“Yes, but you like being treated like a whore. Therefore, I treat you the way you want to be treated, so you can hardly complain, can you?”
He thought for a moment, but had no comeback.
“I would apologize that you have to watch me finish up my work for the day, but that’s what happens when you don’t follow instructions,” she said, closing her laptop. “Finished. Or close enough. Wine?”
“Please.”
She left to fetch a bottle. Arthur took a book from the shelf and flipped through it. Regan returned with a Rosanella Syrah and two glasses. She took a corkscrew out of her desk drawer.
“Were these all your textbooks from LOCAD?” Arthur asked, showing her the cover of the book he held. A History of Modern Art. Every last book on her shelves was about art or a famous artist, technique guides, art histories…There were even large padded envelopes sitting on the floor by the shelves, recent purchases. One had a label from Prestel, another from Phaidon. Famous art book publishers. New additions to her collection, apparently.
He looked at Regan. She pulled the cork from the bottle, and didn’t meet his eyes when she replied. “How did you know I went to LOCAD?”
“I Googled you.”
She shook her head. “A few are old textbooks,” she said, pouring two glasses. “The rest I’ve bought over the years.”
“Why did you quit art school?”
“Got married.”
“Did you want to quit, or did Sir Jack make you?”
“He didn’t make me do anything. I always had a choice. Either do what he wanted and stay married, or I could do what I wanted and get tossed out on my arse. My decision.”
He might have argued with that but knew better than to try. “Do you still paint?”
“Haven’t in years. What little talent I had is long gone. If you don’t feed your muses, they’ll find someone else who will.”
“You have a tattoo of a quote about art being eternal on your wrist. And you just…quit?”
“I got the tattoo at seventeen. How many people grow up to do what they wanted to do when they were seventeen?”
That was a fair point. At seventeen, he’d considered moving to New York and working at The Red Gallery. At twenty-one, now, he was freshly out of Sandhurst and off to join the British Army in two months.
“Do you have any of your old paintings still? I’d love to see your work.”
Before she could answer, they were interrupted by an odd tapping sound. Arthur looked past Regan at the window. The raven was perched on the windowsill.
“The baby’s home. Eight on the dot as usual,” Regan said, glancing at the slim gold watch on her wrist. She seemed relieved to have the distraction. “He’ll want his supper. You can wait here.”
She strode past him just as Arthur felt his phone buzz in his trouser pocket. He took it out. A text from Charlie.
I forgot something. When Regan got the painting, she stared at it for like forever and I asked her what was wrong, and she said something about how she’d had a very strange dream